All the Silly Things That Haunt Us
by E Salvatore
Summary: A tale of love, heartache, reunions, separations, more heartache, and possibly some closure, as chronicled by Sif's wardrobe choices. (No, really.) Title from Mother Mother's "Getaway".


In their youth, Loki and Sif had often engaged in every possible form of disagreement: from shouting matches that left half the palace privy to their dispute to physical fights that left them with blue and black reminders of each other's wrath, from silly food fights that exasperated the kitchen staff to months-long silent wars that left everyone around them on edge.

But this – this is the argument to end all arguments, a disagreement the likes of which their younger selves could never have predicted, a fight that will leave them with something far more severe and permanent than physical wounds.

"I suppose red has always been better suited to you anyway," Loki snarls, sending his gift sailing across Sif's chamber with a single, rage-filled motion. "Just as the heir apparent is better suited to a warrior of your status than the lowly, dishonorable trickster prince!"

Sif reaches blindly behind her, coming up with a truly massive vase that she effortlessly throws at Loki, growling in frustration when he dodges the makeshift projectile and it shatters into a thousand pieces right next to him. "Must it _always_ come back to this?" She demands, blinking away angry, hot tears before Loki can take note of her weakness. "You never _listen_! A hundred years and still you insist on driving a wedge between us over your brother."

Loki scoffs. " _Me_? You would accuse _me_ of bringing Thor into this when you have so clearly, time after time, made your true feelings known?"

"How _dare_ you!" Sif screams as she sends a dagger soaring across the room, letting loose a strangled cry when Loki calmly reaches out and wraps his fingers around the bejeweled hilt of the blade he had given her so many years ago. " _You_ are the one I have pledged myself to! _You_ are the one who knows my heart! _You_ are the one I have shared a bed with for the last century!"

"And still you choose to clothe yourself in your beloved shades of maroon and burgundy - a far cry from my colors, a perfect match for Thor's," Loki drawls, eyes focused on the dagger he turns over and over again in his hand.

A sob rises past her throat then, and Sif doesn't bother muffling it as her shoulders slump. She is exhausted by his stubbornness and hurt by his accusations, and she has run out of the strength and patience required for this. "Enough," She says quietly. "I have had enough of this, Loki. I _love_ you, I really do, but I will not, _cannot_ , spend the rest of our lives trying to convince you of this."

"Wear my colors," Loki forces out through gritted teeth, "and I will be convinced."

Sif shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her despite her best attempts to remain silent. "You _still_ don't understand," She whispers, voice thick with emotion and all the things she refuses to tell him, all the things he should not need her to explain. When she lifts her eyes to meet his, they shine with unshed tears.

"Leave, Loki," Sif commands, ignoring the way he flinches just the slightest bit at her words. "Leave me be, leave us in the past, leave this room and never come back."

He takes the dagger with him but leaves the dress to haunt her.

.

.

.

She wears it many moons later, when they've both aching from the loss of each other and she can no longer bear the cold solitude of her bed without him.

"What is the meaning of this?" Loki hisses as she forgoes her customary seat by Thor to sit beside him instead.

"What do you think?" She snaps, but there is a plea in her eyes and a soft smile on her lips, and slowly Loki's smile grows to match her own as he takes her hand in his on top of the table for once, in full view of everyone else.

The palace is set abuzz by the sight of her in gold and green but for Loki and Sif, there is only peace. It does not last – it never does, not with Loki's demons a constant presence in their lives – but for a moment, for one brief, shining moment, Sif chooses to believe that she is enough to drown out those demons.

Later, she will laugh bitterly at her own foolishness. But for now, the green dress sits front and center in her wardrobe and brings a smile to her face every time she sees it.

* * *

The day Thor is unexpectedly and unofficially named Odin's heir, Loki goes on a rampage.

By the time the news reaches Sif, she knows it is too late. She can hear his destruction before she even sets foot into the residential wing of the palace, can see his wreckage before he even realizes he is no longer alone.

But this, this is familiar. She sits through his rants and his rage, draws him close once there is nothing left to say or destroy and soothes him with promises of their future, a future with more freedom than any king of Asgard could ever hope for.

It is the months following the announcement that worry Sif. The shift in Loki's behavior and the eerie calm and even feigned happiness that has suddenly washed over him keep her up most nights, along with Loki's increasingly frequent absence from her bed. Loki might think himself a master of deception and secrecy, but Sif has always been able to see through his acts. This time, however, it proves impossible to pin down just what he is hiding.

The week before Thor's coronation, Loki slips into her bed for the first time in a fortnight. She has just come from a meeting with the Queen, where she had been informed that her attire at the coronation will not be within her discretion. She is to wear her ceremonial armor, the one lined with burgundy, and it is such a relief and a blessing to be able to assure Loki that this is not at all her choice, that she would have worn something entirely devoid of Thor's colors if it weren't for the fact that she is a warrior of the realm and Thor will soon be her liege.

"I pledge my allegiance to him," She whispers into the night, acutely aware of the tense set of Loki's jaw, the unnatural stillness of his form. "But my heart, my life, my loyalty – those I have promised to you and only you, Loki." He might be second in his father's eyes, second in the people's eyes, but he has always been first in her heart and Sif knows, somehow she just knows, that he needs to be reminded and reassured of this now more than ever, that this is her only way of combating whatever it is that has taken him from her side these past few months.

She would gladly remind him again and again, would speak these words to him until her voice goes hoarse and her thoughts are stuck in a loop, but Loki is gone before dawn and the next time she sees him is at the coronation itself, two steps ahead of her and a world away.

Sif stares at his back, at his tense shoulders and his uneasy breathing, and she wishes – oh, she wishes – she did not know Loki so well, wishes she could believe, for even a second, that he has actually made peace with his brother's ascension, that he will let today unfold without chaos. As much as she loves him, as highly as she thinks of him, Sif knows that is not to be.

The failed coronation, the trip to Jotunheim, Thor's banishment, the Allfather's sudden sleep – all of it happens so quickly, so seamlessly. Every last detail screams Loki and chaos and envy, and Sif's heart aches with the weight of how well she knows him, breaks with the certainty that he is lost to her forever.

And then he is lost to all of them, forever.

.

.

.

Sif does not mourn the way Frigga does – she has no right to wear the black garb that marks loved ones, has no right to be so impaired by the loss of a man Asgard only ever saw as her erstwhile lover.

For the first time in centuries, the Lady Sif commissions an entirely new wardrobe, one composed completely of shades of silver and grey: shades of the blades he gifted her, the shield he charmed for her, the armor he picked with her.

She retires the ceremonial armor lined with burgundy, buries all of her red silks behind the wall of grey, and goes on with her existence. Sif is the Queen's pillar, she is Thor's strength, she is a shoulder to cry on with no tears of her own to shed.

Sometimes she thinks of him, wonders what he would say if he were here to see just how much he did matter, just how much power he wielded over all their hearts. She hates that she knows he would be pleased to see the pain he has inflicted upon them, hates that she fell in love with such a man in the first place.

The green dress she had meant to wear to Thor's coronation feast taunts her from beyond her wall of grey and red, and she hates it and everything it was meant to symbolize almost as much as she hates the small part of herself that still hopes _someday –_

* * *

The second time he dies, Sif does not bother with her greys.

She is _exhausted_ \- tired and confused and, despite her best efforts and genuine threats, still foolishly sentimental. Loki needs to have the decency to either die a hero or live a villain, to let her love him the way one cherishes the idea of what could have been or to make her hate him with the passion only a twice-fooled lover can possess.

Except… he _has_ chosen, has he not? By Thor's account, Loki died a hero, a self-sacrificing prince who put his brother and his people before him. The story spreads across the kingdom like wildfire, and it is not long before the Allfather publicly pardons his lost son and announces a memorial in his honor.

Unfortunately, Sif has always known Loki better than anyone else in the Nine Realms.

So when Odin's eye starts lingering on her, when Thor conveniently receives his father's blessing to leave for Midgard, when she and the Warriors Three are sent on endless quests that keep them away from the palace… she knows exactly what Loki has done.

Sif has received her fair share of battle wounds - scars she wears proudly on her skin, a tapestry of challenges and triumphs and memories. This too, she decides, will be a tale of rising above and moving forward – this chapter of her life that has spanned hundreds of years and countless fights and endless pain. Certainly Loki has picked enough at her wound for it to leave quite a scar, and now the time has come to leave it be and watch the blood, the red, the rage and hurt and pain drain away to leave only a faint reminder of her victory.

It is with this resolve that she goes to meet the would-be King when next he summons her.

"Lady Sif," Loki-Odin intones, sounding every bit like the King he plays at being, like the father he always wished to emulate. "I fear your presence is once more required in Midgard," He says gravely, as if he is not the one behind this latest development in a string of troubles deliberately caused to keep her attention far from Asgard and its throne. Sif barely listens as he details her quest, a quest she already knows she will not go on. She stays only for the imposter's last words, the same ones he dismissed her with the last time she was sent to Midgard.

"Of course, you must take every precaution to keep Thor from learning of your presence. He has earned his time with his Midgardian, and I do not wish to trouble my son unnecessarily."

"Is it truly for Thor's sake that you ask this of me?" Sif questions as she finally raises her head and looks him in the eye. "Or are you worried the mere sight of him will render me weak with the longing and love you have always accused me of, _Loki_?"

 _At least_ , Sif thinks, _at least_ he does not insult her by attempting to sway her from the obvious truth.

"How long?" Loki sighs as he allows the illusion to fall.

"Long enough for Thor to have heard, if I so wished it," And oh, how she had wished it at first. But for the first time in a long time, Asgard and the other Realms are as close to peace as they will ever be. She cannot guarantee that it will remain the same under the Allfather's rule, not when he is so recently bereaved and susceptible to the idea of vengeance, however pointless it might be. Thor's rage might be infamous throughout the Realms, but Sif is one of the few to know with the absolute certainty that can only come from firsthand experience that it pales in comparison to Odin's temper at its worst. For now, at least, while Odin is mad with grief and Thor is distracted by love… for now she will keep this knowledge to herself.

"I always told you I was meant to rule Asgard," Loki smirks when she tells him the only reason he has not been stripped of his false title yet. "Such a shame that none of you believed me."

"I never doubted that you would be good for the throne," Sif reminds him, allowing herself one last smile tinged with all the sorrow and concern and fear she has ever felt for the man before her. "I only ever worried that the throne would be no good for you. And you cannot tell me, Loki – surrounded by all this power and trickery and loneliness – you cannot tell me that I was wrong to think so."

She turns her back on him then, begins the long walk to the doors as Loki rages at her about how poorly she understands him, about the satisfaction being King brings him, about the way all this power has filled the void in him that she could never quite patch up. God of Lies, their people call him, but they would not if they knew what Sif does, if they were here to see how transparent his lies are.

"Where do you think you're going?" Loki bellows as she nears the door, and she need not turn around to know that he is storming down the hall and quickly approaching her. "You are sworn to this Realm!"

Sif moves so quickly the end of her ponytail nearly whips Loki's face. "I am sworn to Asgard's _rightful_ King," She hisses at him, watching his eyes grow dark with fury at the reminder. "And until such a time that I can serve him, I will not serve at all. Farewell, _Allfather_."

That is all the warning she deigns to give him before she wrenches the doors wide open, placing them within sight of a dozen Einherjar and a handful of members of his new Court. For someone who has known her as long, as well, as intimately as he has, it should be warning enough.

She does not turn back to check.

.

.

.

Sif finds herself on Midgard not long after. It is reassuring, the knowledge that Thor will be easily reached should she change her mind about Loki's reign. Until then, however, she will not seek him out.

She finds a village locked away in some dusty corner of her mind, one where they used to worship her as Thor's consort. It is a wonder Loki never did get around to burning the entire settlement to the ground for their mistaken belief.

The village is a village no more, but it is still more peaceful and less blinding than most parts of Midgard she has seen recently, and it is a balm to Sif's frazzled soul. It is a reminder, this quiet life, of days long gone when green was merely the color of the forest and red the sign of a warm hearth; when blue was the color of the sky and the lake and all her clothes.

Blue is the color of all her clothes now, save one.

The green dress hangs in her wardrobe, delicate silk laughably out of place amongst the sturdier, more practical Midgardian garments she has grown accustomed to. Sif does not know why she has brought it with her, only that she could not bear to leave it behind the way she had left behind tokens and memories and people far more significant than a silly dress.

Some nights she leaves the door to her wardrobe open, and from her bed she can see the dress bathed in pale moonlight, a mere shadow of what it is in the light of day. She thinks maybe she brought the dress with her because they are quite nearly immortal, and eternity is a very long time not to redeem oneself, and perhaps _someday_ –

A different _someday_ occurs to her a few nights later, the idea of a _someday_ when the dress will be long forgotten and carelessly misplaced, lost to the ravages of time just as its former significance will be.

Sif can't quite bring herself to leave the dress behind just yet, but the fact that both _somedays_ are equally appealing to her feels – _finally_ – like the end of a torturous cycle.

And until either of those things happen, she will wear the dress from time to time when she is invited to a celebration, and it will merely be a nice dress she wears to nice occasions, nothing more and nothing less.

Ghosts, Sif finally finds with no small measure of relief and satisfaction, are only as potent as you allow them to be.

* * *

 **I just... Look, I'm gonna be honest here: this was never meant to be more than a tiny ficlet about possessive Loki and indulgent Sif. But then I thought, 'hey, I could totally make this 500% more angsty'. And then I realized I'd screwed myself over and at least 60% of this fic is total crap. I hope you enjoyed the other 40%, at least. And I'm very, very sorry for the rest. Comments are always nice... yes, even if you're just writing to yell at me for wasting your time with this hot mess. That way I'll know what not to post next time.**

 **P.S: In case you were wondering - no, Sif didn't just peace out and leave Asgard at Loki's mercy. Hogun would regularly update her on the situation back home. She was ready to storm home and strangle Loki to his actual death when she heard about Heimdall being replaced, but her mysterious, all-knowing bro was like "Sif, no, stay far away from this place" so she did. TL;DR - Sif was somewhere on Earth during Ragnarok because Heimdall is pretty much the only person she'll listen to with zero questions asked.**


End file.
